LE5760 - Ghost of Winter, page 1
Escape ... or die.
WARNING, REACTOR SHIELDING DAMAGED, flashed Sturm's readouts. His clever plan had trapped him in the valley. The Uller was covering his means of escape. Sturm watched the enemy 'Mech as it raised its arms to fire again. He was certain this attack would be the one to finish him.
Cursing, he slammed down the ejection switch. A moment later he felt a blast of cold air as he was launched out and away from the dying BattleMech. The last thing Sturm saw was the Uller's lasers and autocannon clobbering the Thorn. The 'Mech fell backward and crashed into the ground, a miniature sun blossoming in its chest as the fusion reactor went critical.
Then the black face of the cliff rushed at him, and Sturm's world was swallowed up in darkness. . . .
GHOST OF WINTER
LE5760
Stephen Kenson
ROC
Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd. 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published by Roc. an imprint of Dutton NAL, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, October 1999 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © FASA Corporation. 1999 All rights reserved
Series Editor: Donna Ippolito
Cover Art: Doug Chaffee
Mechanical Drawings: FASA Art Department
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MECHWARRIOR, FASA, and the distinctive MECHWARRIOR and FASA logos are registered trademarks of the FASA Corporation. 1100 W. Cermak, Suite B305, Chicago, IL 60608
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
This book would not be possible without the help of a great many people. The author would like to thank Bryan Nystul, for his expertise and guidance in all things BattleTech; Randall Bills, for his eye for detail; Mike Mulvihill, for suggesting that BattleTech would be fun; Donna Ippolito, for her skillful editing under pressure; and all the many authors and artists who have brought the world of the 31st century to life and made it such a fun place to be.
To my parents George and Lynn,
for always beleiving in me
1
Kore
The Periphery
11 April 3060
The sensors screamed a warning as the missiles arced in. Sturm Kintaro pulled hard on the control stick, spinning his ’Mech as quickly as possible into an evasive turn while trying to maintain top speed across Kore’s icy terrain. The fifty-ton Centurion’s servos whined as its internal gyroscope fought to keep it upright through the maneuver. The missiles roared past, missing by barely a meter, impacting on the ground nearby and sending up a cloud of dirt, snow, and pulverized rock. Sturm fought against the shock wave of the near miss and managed to keep the ’Mech upright, spinning toward the new attacker.
He used the dust and dirt kicked up by the missile attack as cover and quickly took stock of the newcomer. It was a Clan ’Mech, of course, one the Inner Sphere had dubbed the Uller, after the Norse god of archery, though Kit Fox was the Clan name for it. This particular Uller looked like an alternate configuration, equipped with long-range missile packs. The enemy ’Mech was hunched and crablike compared to the sleek humanoid form of the Centurion.
At thirty tons, the Uller was smaller than Sturm’s Centurion, but it was faster and more maneuverable. Its missile packs also gave it the advantage at longer range. The Centurion was armed with an autocannon and a single LRM 10-pack. If Sturm kept his distance from the Uller, he would probably get pounded into scrap by missile fire while the faster ’Mech evaded his attacks. He decided to close the distance and put his ’Mech’s superior size and close-range firepower to work.
All this happened in an instant of recognition. Battle-trained reflexes took over and, a split-second after the Uller glowed to life on his display, Sturm was slamming the control stick forward. The Centurion accelerated toward the enemy ’Mech at near top speed, almost sixty kilometers per hour across the frozen tundra.
Sturm thumbed the firing stud for the Centurion’s own LRMs as he closed in, sending a wave of missiles trailing white smoke screaming out from his ’Mech’s chest toward the Uller. As he expected, the Uller’s pilot was quick enough to get his ’Mech out of the way of the incoming missiles: Inner Sphere missile systems were often un-guided, and relied far more on skill and luck than electronics to hit their target.
Sturm took advantage of the frozen ground, covered in a white blanket of snow that was rapidly being churned into gray-brown muck by the pounding tread of the metal giants. There was a danger of slipping and losing traction on the icy ground, but this time, Sturm was counting on just that. Fighting to keep control of the joystick and relying on his ’Mech’s gyroscopic stabilizers, he slid the remaining distance between the Centurion and the Uller like a ball player sliding into home plate. It was a maneuver intended to catch the Uller pilot off-guard, and it worked.
The Centurion’s legs collided with the Uller’s left leg with a shriek of protesting metal and the crash of armor. Flashing red lights on the damage schematic indicated some minor harm to the Centurion’s leg armor, but no significant damage to its internal systems. The steel-titanium alloy skeleton of the giant war machine was stable. The Uller, on the other hand, flailed its arms in a very human, almost comical, gesture before falling over with a thunderous crash, muffled by the sound systems inside the Centurion’s cockpit.
Sturm didn’t waste any time enjoying the sight of the Uller lying on its back like a turtle flipped over by a mischievous child. He gripped the controls tightly and maneuvered the Centurion into a firing position as quickly as possible, bringing the humanoid ’Mech back up on one knee so he could bring its weapons to bear. The Uller pilot fought to do the same, but non-humanoid ’Mechs often had trouble righting themselves from a prone position.
The Uller pilot brought up his ’Mech’s right arm, trying to bring its LRMs to bear on the Centurion. Sturm grinned savagely. LRMs were notoriously inaccurate at such close range, and the enemy warrior would be lucky to hit the broad side of a planet.
The LRMs roared and streaked toward the Centurion on trails of fire. Several slammed into its left arm and torso. Warning indicators screamed of damage to the Centurion’s own missile system. The firing mechanism was badly damaged and off-line. Damn!
Sturm growled a curse and raised his ’Mech’s right arm, bringing the heavy Luxor-series autocannon to bear on the Uller’s underside. With his other hand he trained the floating cross hairs of the Centurion’s medium laser over the center of the enemy ’Mech. He punched down hard on the firing buttons.
A dull roaring filled the cockpit as the autocannon spat fire and a stream of heavy 80mm shells that shredded and tore the composite armor of the Uller. At the same time, a lance of emerald light blazed from the medium laser, vaporizing armor in clouds of superheated smoke, cutting into the Uller’s vital internal systems.
A bright light blossomed in the depths of the Uller as Sturm’s laser found the other ’Mech’s fusion reactor. Sturm pulled the Centurion to its feet and backed away as quickly as possible as the Uller’s damaged reactor began to go super-critical. There was a dull wumph from the damaged ’Mech as the pilot attempted to bail out. Sturm couldn’t tell from his position whether the enemy pilot was able to eject from the crippled ’Mech or not. The Uller flared up like a miniature sun and its reactor melted its internal systems, leaving only a blackened hole and molten slag as it began to dim and fade.
But Sturm didn’t get a chance to enjoy his victory. Just as he checked the Centurion’s damage again and began to sweep the battlefield for signs of other enemy ’Mechs, he got one. The sensors barely had time to shriek a warning before a flight of missiles slammed into the Centurion. The wireframe schematic lit up to show armor blown away by the impact along the ’Mech’s right side. The missile warheads were followed by twin crimson lances as lasers seared and melted armor off the Centurion’s torso and arm. Sturm spun toward his new adversary, bringing all his available weapons to bear, and froze.
It was a Mad Cat, one of the deadliest Clan ’Mechs in existence. At seventy-five tons of state-of-the-art weapons and armor, it outweighed the medium Centurion by fifty percent. It had a hunched-over design similar to the Uller’s but looked far more ominous. The Mad Cat packed heavy and medium lasers in each of its clublike arms, a
Sturm hesitated only an instant before letting loose at the Mad Cat with everything he had. The Centurion’s autocannon roared and its medium laser lanced out. Autocannon shells smashed against heavy ferro-fibrous composite armor, and the laser left a blackened scar along the Mad Cat’s right leg, but the heavier ’Mech kept on coming, firing its own weapons as it lumbered forward. The Centurion tried to move, but too late.
Damn it! Sturm thought, not only is that thing bigger than me, it’s faster, too. The Mad Cat’s ruby lasers slashed across the Centurion like red-hot blades, slicing away chunks of armor and laying bare myomer muscle and delicate internal structures. Another wall of missiles screamed in and slammed into the ’Mech’s leg, sending red indicators flaring to proclaim the loss of vital armor in that area. The damage wasn’t critical… yet, but there was no doubt that the Centurion couldn’t take much more of that kind of pounding.
The cockpit of the Centurion was stifling and Sturm’s body—clad only in boots, shorts, and a coolant vest—was drenched in sweat, making the controls slick under his hands. He pressed his head forward slightly against the inside of his neurohelmet and quickly considered his options.
Thing is, he thought, if I turn my back on this guy, I’m definitely a dead man. The Centurion was one of the few ’Mechs that mounted rear-firing weapons, but Sturm seriously doubted that a single medium laser would do any significant damage to the Mad Cat. In the meantime, the Clan ’Mech’s weapons could cut through his light back armor in an instant and make hash of its internal systems, much like Sturm did to the Uller just moments before. He also couldn’t back away from the Mad Cat, not on such treacherous ground and with the Mad Cat moving as quickly as it was. He immediately decided that his only chance was to try and outflank the bigger ’Mech; do an end run around it and run like hell before the Mad Cat could recoup enough to wipe him out.
Sturm dodged his ’Mech to the left as another storm of missile fire came in, missing him narrowly. He gritted his teeth and slammed the control stick forward, pushing the Centurion up to top speed as he ran almost directly toward the Mad Cat on a zigzag path intended to give him the most chance of avoiding any incoming attacks. The Mad Cat pilot never even wavered at the sight of the fifty-ton Centurion rushing at him, continuing forward in the same almost casual gait.
Sturm triggered the Centurion’s autocannon, stitching a line of fire along the Mad Cat’s left leg and torso as he charged forward, evading the incoming missiles and laser fire. A medium laser cut across his already damaged left torso, and the wireframe schematic lit up with some internal structural damage.
"C’mon, baby, hang together," Sturm muttered under his breath as the Mad Cat swelled in his viewscreen and the distance indicator on his heads-up display dwindled. Damn, but it was big. Only a few more meters….
As the Centurion neared the massive Clan war machine, Sturm shifted the control stick hard to the left and changed direction. Almost like a bullfighter waving his cape, the Mad Cat swiveled its torso and swung one of its massive arms like a club. Sturm saw it move, but he couldn’t react fast enough to do anything about it. The giant metal arm filled his entire viewscreen as it rushed toward him.
There was a deafening "CLANG!" that shook the cockpit as the impact sent the Centurion tumbling out of control. Sturm fought the controls to keep it upright, but gravity held the fifty tons of BattleMech in its relentless grip, and the Centurion toppled over onto the ground like a punch-drunk prize fighter. Sturm got the wind knocked out of him as the cockpit rattled, its shock-absorption systems strained to their utmost.
Still, Sturm wasn’t about to give up. Almost by reflex he threw the Centurion into a roll to the side, trying to avoid the strike he knew was coming next. Instead of swinging its other arm, however, the Mad Cat kicked with its clawed foot instead. The impact boomed through the cockpit as the kick smashed armor and internal systems, lighting up flashing red indicators on the damage display. As Sturm tried to bring his autocannon to bear on his enemy, he looked up at the viewscreen and saw the Mad Cat point its massive arms downward at his ’Mech. As he grabbed for the controls, a hellish red light filled the screen, the heat in the cabin skyrocketed, and then everything went dark.
2
Kore Lancers Training Center
Niffelheim, Kore
The Periphery
11 April 3060
The door of the pod opened with a hiss, and cool air wafted inside as Sturm released his seat harness and reached up to remove his neurohelmet and let the air begin to dry the sweat dripping from his face and soaking his skin. He set the helmet aside, careful not to get tangled in the cables, and climbed out of the hatch to face the music. He ran one hand through his damp, dark hair, trimmed close on the sides to facilitate contact with the helmet’s neural pads, worn longer on the top, a style common to MechWarriors.
He gave the man waiting outside the training pod a jaunty grin, but it was clear from the other man’s expression that Master Sergeant Aaron Krenner was in no mood for humor.
The master sergeant of the Kore Lancers stood more than two meters tall, his entire body a mass of bulging muscle, kept steel-hard with grueling daily workouts at ungodly hours of the morning. The fluorescent lighting of the training bay glistened off his ebony-dark skin and the bald pate of his head. Krenner shaved his hair, with the exception of a nearly trimmed goatee that some thought gave him a vaguely sinister look (probably why he kept it, Sturm thought).
He was dressed in the standard duty-fatigues of the Lancers: a gray and white cammo pattern suited to urban or arctic environments, which were the only terrains to be found on Kore. His massive arms were folded across his chest and he wore an expression of strained patience on his grim face. Sturm knew right away that he was in for a lecture.
"Sergeant—" he began, but Krenner, as if he’d been waiting for the young MechWarrior to finally speak, broke in with his deep baritone.
"That was a poor showing, Kintaro."
"But, Sarge, I—"
"Don’t ‘but Sarge’ me, MechWarrior! My job is to train you. You may not be an apprentice anymore, but you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn if you expect to see any real action. That kind of performance would have gotten you killed in a real battle!"
Sturm almost shook his head. Like he was going to see any real action out here, on a mining colony at the farthest reaches of known space, light years away from all the action in the Inner Sphere.
"It was just a training session," he protested weakly. Krenner was right, he hadn’t handled it very well, but there was a reason. "Besides," he continued, "it wasn’t fair. I mean, a Centurion up against a Mad Cat?"
"Fair?" Krenner exploded. Sturm cringed, knowing he’d said exactly the wrong thing. "We’re talking about war here, Kintaro! This isn’t some game. Out there in the real world you’re going to be sitting inside a real ’Mech and there are going to be real people trying to kill you. And some of them are going to have bigger ’Mechs than you, understand? If you screw up against them, there’s no ‘reset’ switch. If that Mad Cat had been for real, you’d be dead right now. That’s the whole point of training you—teaching you how to stay alive."
Sturm opened his mouth to say something else, then thought better of it. He looked down, then back up at Sergeant Krenner. The Sarge was right, after all. He usually was.
"I’m sorry, Kren," Sturm said. "I’ll do better next time." For a moment, the grim look on Krenner’s face softened. For all his bluster, he considered Sturm almost a foster son. Krenner had taken it upon himself to look after Jenna Kintaro’s boy after she died ten years ago, and he’d be damned if he’d let Sturm get himself killed the first time he saw action on a battlefield.
"Sorry doesn’t make any different, Sturm," Krenner said firmly. "Doing better does. That’s why you’ve got to practice, and that’s why you’ve got to learn, if you’re going to be a MechWarrior and survive the experience."
